


Dawn

by tfm



Series: A Day in the Life [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-07
Updated: 2009-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfm/pseuds/tfm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can Morgan, Prentiss and Reid help each other through the aftermath of their harrowing experience, or will they each walk the path of destruction alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter One**

Ten Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_However long the night, the dawn will break_.

**African Proverb**

*             *             *

He stands, surveying the rows of bodies. They stare up at him, mocking. Their mocking, he rationalizes, is the reason that he killed them in the first place. They deserved death, right up until the end.

He sees these new eyes, staring up at him. They are not dead yet. He understands that there is fear in them, and yet it has no emotional impact. The eyes might as well be shut, for all the good their pleading is doing.

‘You all had it coming in the end,’ the man holding the scalpel whispers. He’s used this scalpel nineteen times before; on the seventeen bodies that are lying in rows around him, and the two bodies that have already been put into place. Their dead eyes mirror his.

He makes a careful, practiced incision in the chest, starting at the left pectoral. The man whose chest is being cut open tries to scream, tries to struggle from the bonds that keep him against the table.

He makes a second incision, this time from the right pectoral. The man on the table’s eyes flutter. He’s going into shock.

He looks up one last time with those pleading eyes.

Then, the eyes close.

*             *             *

He stares out at the sea of faces. He gets the feeling that they are judging him, criticizing him for having fallen so far. When he was here less than eight months ago, he had his one year medallion. He’s on his second attempt so far; he knows that some people in this room are on their third, even their fourth. It does not comfort him.

‘I…I was clean for eighteen months,’ he tells them. He cannot help but watch their expressions; he sees some faces that look bored – they are only here to fulfill requirements. Others are feeling the pain of withdrawal; he can see the redness in their eyes, the way their fingers tap against armrests. They’re trying to zone out, to distract themselves from the cravings. Others look genuinely interested; the ones that have their five year medallions, but keep coming back, because they know that they can fall off the wagon at any time.

‘But then,’ he says, ‘I was kidnapped.’ There is a small smattering of laugher when he attaches the addendum ‘again.’

‘He gave me Morphine first. Then Fentanyl. It only takes that one hit to make the cravings set in again. I’ve been struggling, trying to push them away. I haven’t taken any, but the nightmares...I can’t forget. I can’t stop the cravings.’

‘It’s not just the addiction,’ he admits. This is a topic he has not broached with anyone, not even the team. ‘It’s...I’ve always had an internal locus of control. I can’t do this job with any other perspective. But it makes this hard. They say the first step is to admit that you’re powerless, but I can’t do that. Because admitting that I’m powerless...that’s taking away any control I’ve got over my own life.’ He jitters nervously. He doesn’t think he has ever made such a personal speech. Facts, trends, statistics; he can rattle them off with ease. When it comes to the personal stuff, though, he has a little more difficulty.

He glances down and clears his throat slightly.

‘It’s been six months.’

*             *             *

In Washington D.C, the average summer high is approximately eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. It’s a little above that now; ninety, and it isn’t quite nine a.m.

Everything seems to be pushing the extremes this year.

She knows that she was supposed to be in at least half an hour ago, but she isn’t rushing. It’s her first day back, and she’ll damn well be late if she pleases. She was up until two a.m, writhing, trying to find a position comfortable enough that she could drift into an uneasy sleep.

And when she did finally get to sleep, the nightmares came.

The psychiatrist had told her that nightmares after a traumatic experience were normal – as if she hadn’t been having nightmares on a weekly basis since she joined the BAU. Both Morgan and Reid had experienced the same nightmares, but (though she would never admit it to them) she thought herself above that. She had been pushing away the bad stuff since she was born.

Then, she remembers that dreams are an expression of the unconscious mind, that maybe her nightmares are so bad, so vivid, _because_ she pushes it all away, compartmentalizes it.

She sees herself drowning, sees herself dying in so many different ways. She knows what internal processes that her unconscious mind is mimicking. The fear, the doubt.

She slips her bra on, turning her head slightly so she can guide the clasp shut. She cannot help but notice the heavy scarring on her back. It still shocks her sometimes, to see something so horrific on her body. She knows that without the skin graft, it would look much worse, but she doesn’t want to imagine it. Even this is a permanent reminder of her experience.

There’s another scar – this one she can see without turning. It runs from her wrist to her elbow, and it too is a reminder; just looking at it, she can see the bone poking through the arm, feel the agonizing pain of something being so drastically snapped out of place.

She puts her arms through her jacket sleeves. She doesn’t care how warm it is outside.

She knows she doesn’t want to feel the cold again.

*             *             *

He pours himself another cup of coffee. He’s been back on the job almost four months, and yet he knows he still hasn’t quite recovered. Physically, he has a few scars, but mentally, he can’t get over the guilt.

He knows that he had antagonized the unsub with his last ditch attempt at ensuring their escape. Had antagonized the unsub into almost killing Emily and sending Reid into a spiralling new addiction. That they can’t speak to him for too long, can’t look him in the eyes for more than a second, that is his fault. He knows he deserves it.

If he were to talk to any of the others – to Hotch or Rossi, to JJ or Garcia – they would tell him that he was being paranoid. That Emily and Reid are avoiding him (in his eyes) because they’re still dealing with their own issues.

But then, he thinks those issues are his fault.

And he isn’t going to stop any time soon.

*             *             *

No-one seems surprised when Emily comes in a few moments before ten o’clock. Technically speaking, she isn’t late – ten is the designated briefing time – but they’ve drawn themselves into a routine, where they do paperwork and consults before ten, killing time that would have otherwise been wasted.

She glances at the table quickly. JJ is standing, so there are two free seats; one between Hotch and Morgan, and the other between Rossi and Reid. She hesitates, and then takes the one closest to the back of the room. At least this way she can tell if anyone is watching her with too much interest.

‘Welcome back,’ says Rossi. She gives him a forced smile, but it isn’t as forced as the one she gives Morgan and Reid. Even after six months, she still wonders what they think. Do they think that she’s helpless, that she couldn’t even stop herself from almost dying? God - she had_ fallen _into a fucking river. The unsub had been at least twenty feet from her at the time. If that wasn’t a sign of weakness, then she didn’t know what was.

‘What do we have?’ She flips open the file in front of her, silently aware of at least two pairs of eyes that are yet to return to the front.

‘Two bodies found in Santa Monica,’ JJ explains. ‘Wounds suggest that the victims were autopsied by the unsub while alive. At least, they started off alive. There are also signs that the bodies were kept in cold storage before being dumped.’ She delicately avoids the word “frozen,” and relaxes slightly when Emily does not seem to perceptibly flinch at the thought.

Reid stares at the images on the screen. ‘The preciseness of the wounds could indicate a medical background,’ he says. Then, he gulps slightly, and continues. ‘Were the victims noticeably drugged?’

‘Tox screen shows traces of rohypnol in the blood stream, but there are no signs of any painkillers.’ She turns her gaze to Reid now, and notices that he does not seem overly perturbed by the mention of painkillers. He straightens slightly, but she does not see it as an immediate cause for concern. She would mention it to Hotch, but she knows that after Reid’s first stint with addiction, Hotch is already on the ball. Though he does not say it, she knows that Reid is grateful for the help. He had not accepted help the first time around, and it had almost ruined him.

She just wishes that Morgan and Emily would do the same.

*             *             *

He watches as Morgan, Emily and Reid enter the jet, unconsciously maintaining a good distance from each other. Morgan sits at one end of the plane, Reid at the other, and Emily in the middle. They will linger closer reluctantly once the in-flight brainstorming begins, but they will be courteous, he knows. They will do their best to not let their personal issues encroach upon a case.

Psychologically speaking, he knows they are damaged. The baseline for BAU mental stability is different than that of other departments, he knows. It is almost expected of them to be broken in some way. It is supposed to make them better at doing their jobs, better agents.

It is so much easier to get inside the mind of a killer when you’ve been at the mercy of one.

He knows that this will be a long journey. That if he wants his agents to maintain some semblance of sanity, then they will need his help. They will need the help of Rossi, JJ and Garcia. They will need the help of each other.

Getting to that stage might take a while, he thinks.

But he’ll take it one step at a time.


	2. Nine Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Two**

Nine Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence. True friendship is a plant of slow grow, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation._

**George Washington**

*             *             *

Rossi draws the metaphorical short straw, finding himself in an SUV with Morgan and Emily. He makes conversation that is dutifully ignored by both agents. In the front seat, Emily is – at first glance – engrossed in the case file. A closer look would reveal that her eyes are unmoving. She is trying as hard as she can to slip back into the game unscathed, but it is proving more difficult than she imagined.

With careful eyes, Morgan watches her. Every time he sees her, he thinks back to the screams that kept him awake for so long. They still keep him awake now, albeit in nightmares. Sometimes he just hears the screaming. Most of the time though, he finds himself watching the reason for the screams.  Watching the whip strike her flesh over and over again. His mind improvises, finds new methods of torture for him to watch, though rationally, he knows they never occurred. He hears Reid’s pleas for help, hears Reid scratching at his arms, trying to bleed the drugs out of his system.

‘Morgan.’ The sound of his name jerks Morgan from his reverie.

‘What is it?’ he asks. Before he turns his gaze to Rossi, he sees Emily’s eyes staring back at him in the side mirror. She blinks away quickly.

‘We’re here.’  Only then does Morgan realize that the SUV is stationary, that they are parked outside the hotel. They will check in, put their ready bags in their rooms, and then go straight to the police station.

Emily bumps into him slightly as they pull their bags from the trunk of the car. She opens her mouth slightly, as if doing so was akin to bashing him over the head with a baseball bat.

‘Sorry,’ she says softly. He cannot help but stare at her incredulously.

_‘What is _she _sorry for? You’re the one that screwed everything up. You’re the one that got her and Reid hurt.’_

‘It’s okay,’ he assures her after a several second pause. These are the first words they have directly spoken to each other all day.

She opens her mouth again, but this time it is to say something. Apparently though, she thinks better of it. She instead slings her bag over her left shoulder and walks quickly after Rossi.

_‘She still blames you,’ _that voice tells him. It’s his conscience, he thinks. Telling him that he damn well better feel guilty about the whole situation. _‘She can’t even stand to talk to you for more than a few seconds_.’

He tries to shake it off, to forget about it, but he cannot. Closing the trunk, he follows his colleagues into the hotel.

*             *             *

_‘Did you see the way he looked at you? He thinks you’re weak. Helpless.’_  She’s in the hotel bathroom, washing her face. In the mirror, she sees her appearance, gaunt. She thinks her eyes are dead, hollow. Any confidence that ever graced her expression is gone. For this single moment, alone, unwatched, she can be terrified.

For at least a month after, she couldn’t even wash her face. The sensation of water rushing over was far too similar to drowning. It didn’t matter that she was standing on solid ground. Didn’t matter that such an occurrence was a highly improbable event. She still won’t go swimming. Won’t even take a bath. It’s cooler her than it had been in D.C; she vaguely recalls Reid having mentioned that in June, Santa Monica records far cooler temperatures than the rest of Los Angeles, a result of ocean temperature variations and currents. Still, she’s sweating with her jacket on. It’s a soft, black leather thing that she normally would break out until fall at the earliest. She isn’t going to remove it. Right now, it is her safety net, assuring her that yes, her body temperature is, in fact, regulated. That she isn’t freezing to death.

She checks that her weapon is still on her hip. Checks that it is loaded, and that the firing mechanism isn’t jammed. If she had the time, she probably would have taken the thing apart, made sure that every bit was still in place.

‘You coming?’ Rossi’s voice sounds from outside the bathroom door.

She’s in the hotel bathroom, washing her face. She’s washing away the expression of pain, of fear, of doubt. The mask she adopts now is the one she wants the world to see. If it falters even slightly, then they will all know.

It is only a matter of time. She knows they will find out eventually, because she doesn’t think she’s strong enough to hold up this façade.

Not anymore.

*             *             *

He stares out the window, his mind cataloguing each building that they pass. He sees a gas station, a pawn shop, a grocery store. He isn’t aware of this process, but it seems to occur anyway. He’s thinking of other things; deeper, darker thoughts.

He’s thinking about how wonderful it would feel to plunge the needle in the skin, and at the same time, he’s thinking about how helpless those cravings are making him feel.

He admits, the cravings are worse today. Seeing her had made him realize how vulnerable he really was, how vulnerable they all were. It has been over a month since he had last seen her; he’s been back at work four months, and they haven’t exactly been the most relaxing of months. Sometimes, the workload is so high that he almost forgets. Then everything comes rushing back.

It had come rushing back this morning, when he saw her. He remembers the feeling of the drug coursing through his veins. It runs through there like permanent ink, staining everything it touches. There is no going back. It is always lurking below the surface, waiting for the right time.

For Spencer Reid, the next few weeks are going to be difficult.

*             *             *

He lines this body up next to the last. They had been different people in life. They are the same in death. In death, age, race, socio-economic class, it does not matter. In death, we are all human. Everybody dies.

He washes the blood from the table. It is diluted by the water, made heterogeneous by soap suds. It is the only sign that there was ever life here. If one were to look into the eyes of the dead man, there would be no vestiges of life, nothing to even indicate that this man had a soul, a personality.

Looking closer, each body has slight differences. In one, the fingernails are bitten to the quick. It is a myth that the hair and fingernails continue to grow after death; the skin around them shrinks, causing the illusion of length. In another, there are scars that crisscross the wrists. Five times this woman tried to kill herself, only succeeding when someone else did it for her. He is not concerned by these matters right now, as he dries the shining silver table. He is not interested in the motivations of these people, in the reasons they had for living or dying. Such matters do not pique his curiosity.

He is more interested in the body than the mind.

*             *             *

Any personal issues are left aside the moment the BAU enters the police station. There is a conference room set up for them, images of the first four crime scenes already blu-tacked to the whiteboard.

‘Wait,’ says JJ. ‘_Four?_’

Detective Alex Ford grimaces. He hates serial killers; it’s not just the killing, it’s the fear they instil in everyone.

‘Two more bodies were found a little over an hour ago,’ he explains. ‘Frozen, live autopsies, just like the other ones. Still waiting to find out how long they’ve been dead.’ He looks at each member of the BAU in turn, as if waiting for them to put forth some Earth-shattering theory, to solve the case in a few quick steps and then saunter out of here as quickly as they sauntered in.

‘There doesn’t appear to be any victim preference,’ comments Reid. He’s wary of eyes on him. _‘Are they judging you?’_ He speaks a little bit faster. ‘Already we’ve got victims of both genders, and two different racial backgrounds.’

‘Could be an unsub’s personal vendetta,’ Emily suggests hesitantly. She has almost been afraid to speak up until now, as though anything she could bring up was worthless to them. Her words are not met with scorn, though, much to her surprise (and relief). Hotch nods.

‘We need to do victimology; see if there’re any connections between the victims, anywhere they might have met the unsub.’

He turns to each of them in turn, giving marching orders. His choices are surprising, to say the least. ‘JJ, Morgan. First two crime scenes. Rossi, Prentiss. Second two scenes. Reid, with me. Victimology.’

Nobody argues.


	3. Eight Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Three**

Eight Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_I care not so much what I am to others as what I am to myself._

**Michel de Montaigne**

*              *              *

Her heart starts to beat just a little bit faster when she gets to the crime scene. Realistically, she knows that no-one actually died here; this was just the dump site. Still, she cannot help but envision them in her mind, screaming in agony. These people were helpless to the last, just like she had been.

Of course, they had been drugged and bound; she didn’t have any such excuses to fall back on.

Five times she could have saved herself, saved her friends from the madman that had taken pleasure in their pain. Five times, she had failed. The first time got her a concussion and Morgan tortured. The second time got her a broken arm, and Reid tortured, for lack of a better word. The third time got her tortured. The fourth time got Morgan stabbed. The fifth time almost killed her, and it definitely hadn’t helped Reid.

After five times, constant failure seems like an inevitability. She gets the sinking feeling that everything she does will end in failure, which is why she is trying not to do anything of consequence.

She knows Rossi is eying her carefully as she kneels in the grass. Her fingers touch the spot where, just hours before, a body had lain.

‘Public place,’ comments Rossi. ‘He’d have to be pretty daring to dump a body along here.’

She has a thought, but she does not yet express it. She only speaks when prompted by Rossi.

‘Thoughts?’ he asks. She does not believe that he is genuinely in need of her opinion. He _wants_ to hear it, regardless. The thought does not quite manage to comfort her.

‘They were alive when he did this,’ she says distantly. Sometimes at night she can still feel the metal tip of the whip digging into her flesh in slow motion, as if it is still there. As if it never left.

He pauses, gives her a second. He knows that this is not the time to reprimand her for feeling too empathetic. He wants to see if she can claw her way out of the grave before he turns himself into a permanent crutch.

But when she wants to talk, he’ll be ready.

*              *              *

He has not been partnered with JJ for some time; after his and Reid’s return to work, Hotch had been none too subtle in his concern. Morgan had – until now – found himself partnered with someone adequately trained in reading behavior. He understood the necessity - Reid, Gideon and Elle had all been psychologically damaged after their traumatic events – he simply did not like the constant breathing down his neck, especially knowing that he was absolutely fine. No amount of argument could convince Hotch otherwise.

It does not comfort him to know that the only thing that changed Hotch’s mind was for someone with even greater psychological trauma to return to work.

It is ironic, then, that he actually feels comfortable talking about the experience with JJ. For a long time after Reid’s kidnapping at the hands of Tobias Henkel, she felt the guilt. He wants – he needs – to know how she made that guilt go away. She seems surprised that he had asked the question; he sees her eyes widen slightly. She does not speak straight away.

‘You don’t,’ she says eventually, and his heart sinks. It would almost be a worthy punishment to feel this pain for all eternity. But then, she continues. ‘There’s no magic word you can say to make it go away. But if you try and help them through their issues, help them recover...’ she trails off, and Morgan nods, understanding what she is trying to say.

‘But how can I look them in the eyes, knowing that I did this to them?’

She frowns slightly. ‘I’m not going to go ahead and say that it’s not your fault, because no matter how much I say it, you’ll still feel the guilt. I will tell you that just because you might have got out of it a little less hurt doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel the pain as well.’

His answer is silence; he is pondering the best way to approach the situation. Before the silence can consume them, JJ speaks again.

‘You survived something that would have killed most people. Just try and remember what got you through in the end.’

He thinks that, on the whole, JJ is a far better profiler than she lets anyone believe.__

*              *              *

They’ve made good headway on victimology; they know without a doubt that these individuals were chosen for a reason.

Hotch finds himself more concerned with watching Reid that doing the victimology. The young profiler is focused on the whiteboard, pen in his hand. He does not dare waver from the topic at hand, and that alone tells Hotch that he is struggling.

Though there is an unofficial moratorium on the practice, Hotch has found himself profiling the team more and more, especially in light of recent events. He does not want a repeat of past incidents.

Morgan feels guilty, but that is nothing compared to the guilt of the Unit Chief. He feels responsible for them; their pain is his pain. Each time one of them is hurt, he feels the blows; he feels the knife wound to the leg, the needle to the arm, the snapping of bones, and yet, at the same time, he agonizes in knowing that they have it so much worse. He knows he would take every wound of theirs for himself, but he cannot.

All he can do is make sure they survive.

*              *              *

Half an hour later, Hotch gets a call from Garcia. He had asked her to run some names, to see if there was a common link. He had not been expecting a reply so soon; it is almost as if their unsub wants to be caught.

He does not recall a BAU case that was ever solved this quickly. It almost gives him cause to doubt. To wonder if it really is their unsub, or if they’re walking into just another dead end.

He straps his Kevlar vest on tightly, knowing that it can only stop a small percentage of wounds. They wear the Kevlar vests with practicality taken into account. To ensure their complete safety, it would require full-plate armor, and perhaps a nuclear fallout shelter, just to be safe. He knows that in limiting their own safety, in accepting the possibility of that sacrifice, they ensure maximum apprehension rate.

He knows that in just doing their jobs, they run the risk of death. They run the risk of injury. They run the risk of complete psychological breakdown.

And yet, they’re all still here.

So why do they keep coming back?

He has asked himself that question so many times, and he thinks that he has come up with a suitable answer. It’s a compulsion. He knows that even at this strange point in time, when they are all questioning themselves, questioning their ability to do the job, they come back anyway. He thinks they will keep coming back, in spite of their doubts, right up until they break down. He thinks he understands why. To be in the BAU, one does not simply have to have the smartest minds, but the strongest as well. It is the mind that keeps them all going through the pain. It is the mind that tells them to hold on in spite of the dour circumstances. It is the mind that draws them so close to each other, that tells them to rely on the strengths of their teammates (even though they don’t seem to be listening right now).

It is Aaron Hotchner’s mind that tells him his team will pull through this, because they are not weak people.

*              *              *

Emily tries not to let the fear overshadow her as she steps forward, gun held tightly. She had insisted on being let on the raid, and to her surprise, Hotch agreed. She thinks perhaps he wants her to flood the doubts, and that is exactly what she is trying to do. If she goes at it slowly, she knows she will never recover fully.

Still, he and Rossi are flanking her, an act for which she is not entirely ungrateful. She and Rossi go left at Hotch’s silent motioning.

Logically, she knows that she will have to face her fears eventually. Still, she wishes that she had the chance to conquer them one at a time. She sees the freezer door ahead of her, and doubts.

Rossi is still behind her. In the silence that terrifies her, she can hear his breathing. In those breaths, she can hear him judging her. He thinks that she is weak, she knows. A federal agent scared stiff of a freezer.

If it were just herself there, she thinks she would have panicked already. Would have sunk to her knees, curled into a small ball, and cried. It is the part of her that was raised as a diplomat’s child, the part of her that the heart is worn most securely beneath the sleeve, that lets her move forward.

The freezer door swings inward, and the first thing she sees is the row of bodies. There are more, she realizes, stepping in further. Rossi follows, his own relief kept under wraps for the time being. He had been worried that she might panic. Courage, he remembers, is doing something even though it scares the shit out of you. If nothing else, Emily still has that courage.

He sees movement in the corner of his eye. He sees the figure rushing towards them.

He gets off two shots, only one of them hitting the figure. He finds himself knocked to the ground.

It takes him a few seconds to recover.

Then, he remembers.

‘Emily!’

She’s standing at the door, hand pressed up against the cool metal.

‘It locks from the outside,’ she sound panicked, and for a moment, he wonders why. Then he remembers. It’s not just the fact that they’re locked in a freezer. It’s the fact that they’re locked in a freezer and she almost died of hypothermia six months ago.

‘Shit.’ She’s clawing at the door, trying to rip it away from the hinges. The only thing she manages to do is break a few fingernails.

He knows that Hotch and the rest of the team – once they have dealt with the unsub – will come to the rescue, will release them from this icy tomb.

He stares over at Emily; she has been trying so hard to keep it under wraps today, and this has sent her over the edge. He puts an arm around her.

He hopes help comes before it is too late.


	4. Seven Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Four**

Seven Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials._

**Chinese Proverb**

*             *             *

Aaron Hotchner hears the gunshot, and his heart skips a beat. Realistically, he knows that gunfire in the apprehension of an unsub is not uncommon, that more often than not it is his agents who take the shots. Today, though, he is feeling particularly protective, particularly paranoid.

He thinks that the sound came from down the hall, where Rossi and Prentiss had gone. His gun is held directly in front of him as he changes direction, moves closer to the sound of the gunfire. He’s momentarily distracted as Rossi’s voice comes over the radio, telling him that the unsub is on the move, that he and Emily are trapped in the freezer.

‘Hotch?’ Reid approaches slowly from behind. He finds himself coming to Hotch more and more often in dangerous situations. The presence of the Unit Chief somehow makes him feel just that little bit safer.

They’re at the bathroom door, when Hotch hears the footstep. It’s subtle, on par with a pin dropping.

He realizes almost immediately that the unsub is coming from behind Reid, that the young profiler will be in his line of fire.

‘Get down!’ Hotch yells. Reid tries to turn and to duck at the same time, and almost trips over his own feet. Above his head, the bullets whistle.

Hotch grimaces at the slight sting he feels in his left shoulder. The blood is spreading, he knows, but he is too busy walking quickly towards the unsub, checking the pulse.

Morgan swears when he sees the scene before him. It’s low, under his breath, but he knows that at the very least, Reid heard him. Reid seems in shock a little, as if even with his vast cognitive ability, he is still processing the events.

His mind is still processing a lot of things.

*             *             *

She’s breathing heavily, hyperventilating almost, as though there is not enough oxygen reaching her lungs. On a subconscious level, she knows she is panicking, but that has not yet reached the forefront of her mind. She’s aware of Rossi’s hand on her back, trying to calm her. It’s a subtle gesture, but one that she is grateful for.

Her mind is slipping away. She feels the cool water lapping against her feet. She’s at the edge, ready to dive in. She longs for the world beyond this one, she longs to transcend reality, to sink into eternity.

‘Breathe slowly,’ he seems to be saying. ‘It’s okay.’

He removes the hand the moment he sees the door swing open. Her doubts are not something that needs to be broadcast immediately – he knows that that will only reinforce them. She needs to work through this slowly.

She reluctantly takes the blanket handed to her from the back of the ambulance. It is then that she realizes she is shivering, teeth slamming against each other like beats of a drum. She realizes that she is broadcasting her own vulnerability now, and on some level, she comprehends that no-one seems to judge her for it.

Because they’re all vulnerable in their own way.

*             *             *

They’re back at the hotel, packing up to leave. Spencer Reid is having a crisis of faith. He’s sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the wall opposite him. In the BAU, all cases are difficult, but some are more difficult than others. He had not considered this one particularly horrific, compared to what they saw every other day of the year. Why, then, is he feeling so helpless, so weak?

He has that urge, that painstaking urge. The urge that has consumed him so often since his very first hit. He knows that there is a correlation between the case they work, and his want – his _need_ – to succumb to those urges.

Looking through the unsub’s house, he had seen the needles, the tiny vials of drug. The victims had not been drugged, but the unsub himself had been a user. Whether or not the drugs had led to the unsub’s particular state of mind, he did not know. It was a topic that he had wondered about himself. With his mother’s schizophrenia, and his own problems with addiction, he wonders if, one day, his mind will break. To turn out like the very people he hunts, that is one of his greatest fears. It is the reason that he feels so helpless, so stuck in the rut of determinism. It is a fear he has not shared with anyone, a fear that he has not even readily admitted to himself.

He wonders if they can help him. If they can drive away the inner darkness that is eating him away.

Before it destroys them all.

*             *             *

Hotch buttons up a fresh shirt. He still has the torn, blood-stained piece of clothing that he wore earlier that day, but he cannot quite bear to throw it away just yet. It’s sitting in a plastic bag at the end of his bed, haunting him. Just like everything else.

Things went pear-shaped today, he knows. He thinks it almost in balance; they had ascertained the identity of the unsub early, yes, but the raid had been so close to going very, very wrong. He’s lucky that a bullet to the arm was the only physical injury sustained.

He knows that there is tension, knows that it is something that needs to be fixed. Good communication is one of the foundations of the team. Its absence had preceded the departure of both Gideon and Elle. He thinks that maybe, if he had talked to _them_, if he had intervened before it was too late, then maybe they would still be here.

He has to do something, before it is too late.

*             *             *

Morgan is pacing. JJ’s words keep going through his mind. He needs to talk to them. Needs to help them through this, to make sure that they get through this.

He’s afraid. Afraid that Emily will slam the door in his face, or that Reid will snap at him for even considering trying to make things right. He does not want to ruin the friendship that they had before, the friendship that will remain iconic in his memories.

What is he going to say? ‘_Sorry that you got shot, Reid. Sorry that your addiction was rekindled’_? _‘Sorry that you got tortured for hours on end, Emily. Sorry you almost drowned’_? It sounds lame, even to his mind.

His hand rubs at his leg. Beneath the fabric of his pants, he can almost feel his own scar. He thinks he might have gotten off lightly.

He longs for simpler times. Times when he could talk with his friends without fear of rejection. Times when he could go to bed at night without seeing Reid clawing at his arms, or hear Emily’s screams. Times when he could get through the day without wondering why he is such a coward.

He wants to – _needs _to – talk to them. But he can’t quite find the nerve.

*             *             *

Rossi knocks at the door to Emily’s room. He is nothing if not relentless. He isn’t going to let anyone get away with bottling up their own personal demons. He had tried – he still tried – with Morgan and Reid, but he thinks that they would have both persisted in their broodiness until the final piece of the puzzle was in place. Emily.

They had gone through the traumatic experience together. They need to recover together. But that isn’t going to happen if they won’t even look each other in the eye.

She isn’t surprised to see him. She knows that after her near breakdown in the freezer, he wants to talk to her, to help her through this. His unwavering emotional support is something that she has grown to respect about him.

 She steps back from the door, letting him in.

The first step towards recovery.

*             *             *

It’s late afternoon when they board the jet. A still silence surrounds them, as if the world is on the edge, waiting for this event, this reunion.

It did not seem right to talk in the SUV. The jet is a place where they have all aired their grievances at one time or another, where they have shared their doubts, where they have laughed and joked, where they have been a family.

Reid is the first on the plane. His bag is at his feet, leaving the seat across from him and beside him conspicuously empty. He wants to ­– _needs _to – talk with them, to help them and to let them help him, but he can’t seem to find a way to do it directly.

‘Hey.’ Morgan’s voice tears him back to reality. There is no malice in that voice, only warmth and – if he were to search a little deeper – fear. ‘Can I...can I sit here?’ He gestures to the seat opposite Reid. Startled at first, Reid simply stares.

He can see the heartbreak in Morgan’s eyes when he does not answer right away. The older man is about to leave, about to sit in another seat when Reid lets out a strangled, ‘Yes.’

Morgan nods. He sits down, but does not look up, does not want to see those eyes that are so full of pain, of blame.

Emily stands at the tail end of the jet. She sees them sitting there, together, and she knows that she needs to join them. Talking with Rossi, telling him all her fears, her doubts, had lifted the burden somewhat. When she looks at him now, she half expects to see pity, see disbelief. Instead, she only sees friendship.

So she sits next to Reid, giving a brief smile to both him and Morgan. It isn’t as forced this time, isn’t as filled with doubt.

They don’t talk yet. It had been hard enough for them simply to sit together, to acknowledge the fact that there had been some distance, some boundaries between them. It’s that first step in their long journey towards recovery.

But it’s a start.


	5. Six Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Five**

Six Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_Fall seven times, stand up eight._

**Japanese Proverb.**

*             *             *

_He is walking through dark hallways, lost. No matter how many times he tries to find his way, he keeps coming back to the same winding passageways._

_He can’t help himself. For him, it is a compulsion, an addiction._

_He feels so helpless, trapped in the darkness of his own mind. It isn’t entirely dark; there is a strange ethereal glow, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot seem to reach it. It remains just beyond the touch of his fingertips._

_He wants to grab it, to be embraced by it, but at the same time, he feels something drawing him deeper into the darkness. He knows that once upon a time, he would have accepted that darkness without question._

_Now, though, he doubts. Because each day, the light has grown stronger, and while he cannot reach it yet, he hopes that one day he will._

_One day._

*             *             *

_He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t. These images – these horrific, eye-gouging images – will be imprinted into his mind for all eternity. They’re the same as they always are – burning corpses, severed limbs – but this time, the victims are his friends. His family._

_He reaches through the fire, tries to pull them to safety. Every time, he fails. But then, that isn’t the end. Even after death, they mock him. Their accusing whispers break his heart into a million pieces. Their empty eyes haunt his soul._

_‘This is all your fault, Derek.’ The words seem to mean less than they did the first hundred times. He has come to accept the fact that it is his fault. All he can do now is move forward. It will never be entirely alright, but one day, he thinks he might be able to look these mental constructs in the eye, and tell them that he did everything he could do._

_One day._

*             *             *

_The tall, golden buildings dwarf her. This place feels so familiar, and yet so different. It is the place she finds herself coming to night after night. She drowns. She comes here. It is an unwavering pattern that she has almost grown used to. _

_This is a place that is so much bigger than her. It is bigger than anything she has ever done. At first, that notion had accentuated her fear of being helpless, of never being anything more, but now it comforts her in a way._

_She knows that it’s a metaphor; her unconscious mind attempting to deal with the conscious problems, yet she isn’t quite sure how this is supposed to help. She _has _come a long way since the first night, she knows, but it is not enough to assuage her that maybe one day, everything will be okay._

_One day._

*             *             *

It is one week since Santa Monica. One week since Hotch was shot, since Reid, Morgan and Emily had made some sort of progress. For some unknown reason – though Morgan suspects that Hotch had a great deal to do with it – they have not worked a case since that day.

They have one now, Morgan realizes, as he sees JJ gesture to him from the bullpen. He puts down the coffee jug, and follows her up to the conference room. To his surprise, Hotch is the only other one there. The Unit Chief’s arm is still slightly stiff; he had been cleared for field duty just that morning.

There are a few moments of silence between them, just on the border between comfortable and uncomfortable. Hotch is not a person Morgan would usually reveal his deepest, darkest secrets to. While there is some level of familiarity between them, he finds it difficult to transcend that boss-employee relationship, to reveal the things that make him vulnerable.

Hotch senses this hesitation, and almost laments it; as much as he tries to protect them, his agents rarely come to him for emotional support. In shutting himself away from the world, he has shut himself away from the people that need him most.

Before he has a chance to say anything, though, the rest of the team arrives in quick succession. It does not go unnoticed that, while Reid and Emily are not avoiding each other, neither are they quick to sit next to each other.

It’s two steps forward, one step back.

JJ takes to the front of the room, wary of the almost tense atmosphere. While things are better than they were a week ago, they are still nowhere near the same as they were seven months ago. Seven months ago, they were a family.

Reid watches her intently, his mind cataloguing everything she says: Miami, Florida. Three missing men, all reportedly kidnapped from their homes just under a week ago. Police have no substantial leads. BAU called in for help. It feels as though they are reliving the same story over and over again, just with different characters.

He leaves the conference room quickly, hoping to get another coffee in before they have to leave. His mission is intercepted by a rather determined looking technical analyst.

‘We need to talk,’ she tells him abruptly. He nods, and before he has a chance to protest further, she has steered him away from the break room and into her bat cave. ‘I am hoping very dearly that you are the _least _stubborn one of the terrible trio, Doctor Horrible.’

Reid is silent. He knows what is coming. He has always known that it would eventually come to an ultimatum.

‘Both Emily and my boy Derek need to talk to each other, and they need to talk to _you_. They aren’t going to do that of their own volition, because they’re still incredibly torn up inside. I know you are too, but I’m hoping that you at least have enough sense to know that you need help.’

He opens his mouth to speak, but Garcia, it seems, has not finished. ‘I know I’m not a profiler, but this is coming from the mouth of a friend, not a professional opinion. Morgan is feeling incredibly guilty that he couldn’t save you, and Emily has lost almost all self confidence, and you are feeling like you have no control over your life, and none of you are going to feel any different until you sit down, and you talk. Not talk about what you did on the weekend, but talk about what _happened_.’

Reid nods. He also knows that none of them are quite ready to talk to each other.

Not yet.

*             *             *

He gives them a small smile as they board the jet. Both still have the almost jittery demeanor that he knows he has as well. As if the mere thought of talking to each other is one of the trials of Hercules. He is surprised when they sit opposite him, as though they have come a little further in the journey of psychological healing than he had originally thought. He hasn’t exactly been the most social of people lately.

What can he say to them? Can he thank them for helping him through his harrowing experience? Tell them that they are only alive because of him? He thinks that it has a possibility of working, but not now. Not when they’re sitting right next to each other. Then they will know it is his attempt at making them feel better, no matter how true it is.

He knows that he would have died in there, had Emily not treated his gunshot wound, had Morgan not helped him through the first stages of relapse. Even if he had physically survived, he knows that without their help, he would be a mental wreck. He is something of a mental wreck anyway, but it is not as bad as it could be. Without their help, he thinks he would be wearing a straitjacket right now.

‘Three men, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five,’ Emily says aloud. There is some hesitation in her voice, as if she does not want to speak, but is desperately forcing herself to. ‘Unusual targets for a kidnapping.’ There is a strained silence between the three of them. Though the circumstances are only slightly similar, the case still seems to hit close to home.

And though they don’t know it, it will hit closer still.


	6. Five Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Six**

Five Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_Wait until it is night before saying that it has been a fine day._

**French Proverb.**

*             *             *

No sooner than they arrive in Miami, there are reports of a fourth man having gone missing. Hotch, Rossi and JJ have gone to talk to the victims’ families, leaving Morgan, Reid and Prentiss to start on victimology at the police station. All three of them know that their assigned task is no coincidence. Hotch put them together for a reason, a reason that is abundantly clear.

They need to talk.

Right now, they are talking, but they’re talking about motive, about social classes, about links. They aren’t talking about a certain sadist, about a torturer, about a murderer.

‘So the unsub definitely has a type,’ Morgan was saying. ‘Male, twenty-five to thirty-five. Upper-middle class. No specific ethnic group. We need to determine whether they were chosen because they fit the unsub’s type, or if it was due to a specific link between them. Garcia?’

‘_I can’t find anything that stands out. All four missing men worked in the business field, but no substantial overlap._’

‘We’re looking for someone who’s had contact with all four victims. Independent contractor? Consultant?’ Emily muses. She seems almost surprised when Reid nods.

‘We’ll be looking for someone with a more flexible schedule. If he took these men for a reason, then he’ll probably want to spend time with them. He could be a sadist, but then, we won’t know for sure until we find a body.’

Emily grimaces. Not even a month back, and already they have two cases of sadism in a row. She thinks that must be some kind of irony. The world, laughing in her face.

Almost on cue, one of the detectives knocks on the door. ‘We’ve had a call on the tip line. Someone saying he knows where these men are being held. That they will die if the police don’t come soon. He knows details that weren’t released to the press.’

Morgan raises an eyebrow. It is an unexpected development. He gets the feeling that the unsub wants to get their attention. He wants gratification.

‘You have an address?’

The detective nods, holding up a notepad. Morgan takes the proffered pad, and reads the address out loud. It is less than four blocks from the station. The three agents share a glance, each trying not to betray their own doubts.

‘Let’s get the Kevlar,’ says Reid eventually.

*             *             *

They are leaving the house of the second victim when Hotch gets the phone call. Rossi watches as the Unit Chief’s face wrinkles in concern. He is torn between protecting his agents, and helping them move forward.

‘They’re not alone,’ Rossi says softly, surmising the details of the conversation. At the very least, there will be police officers to back them up. Hotch nods.

‘We’ll be there soon,’ Hotch says. ‘But if you believe the victims can be saved, go in immediately. Be extremely carefully – if the unsub called the tip line, then a trap is probable.’

‘They’ll be fine,’ Rossi says the moment Hotch hangs up. ‘Performing under pressure they’ve got not trouble with, it’s just dealing psychologically that’s the problem.’ Some small part of him knows that if the raid goes well, then it will just as effective in healing them.

He finds it interesting, the methods of coping that they use. They aren’t like normal people. Normal people don’t find catching serial killers so cathartic. Normal people don’t have to worry about whether or not the next case will stick around in their nightmares.

Normal people, he thinks. Normal people have it easy.

*             *             *

The house looks like every other house on the block. It is expensive, white, picketed fence. A cheery façade for the darkness that lurks beneath. Half a dozen police cars, two ambulances, and one single black SUV are parked haphazardly around the front driveway. If anyone were looking to drive down this street, then they would be forced to find a detour.

Morgan, Reid and Emily stand in a small cluster, discussing the situation. Their voices are low.

‘It’s definitely a trap,’ argues Morgan. ‘We can’t go in without knowing the score.’

Emily makes a gesture that looks like a cross between a nod and a shake of the head. ‘Yeah, I get that, Morgan, but there still could be people alive in there. We can’t let them die.’

‘We don’t know if anyone’s alive.’

Reid watches their disagreement, as though it is a tennis match. This is not what the others had in mind when they suggested that talking was required.

The decision is made for them when the door to the house swings open. A man steps out, shaking, his hands in the air. He walks forward slowly, and to the BAU agents, it is clear that he has been through some trauma. Reid recognizes him as the first missing man.

They gesture the police officers back, and move forward, guns drawn.

‘Michael Roland?’ Morgan asks him. He nods, still shaking.

‘Are you…are you the FBI?’

‘Yes. Everything’s going to be okay.’ Emily puts a hand on his shoulder, her off hand still gripping her gun tightly.

‘The others…they’re still in there. He wants…He’ll only release them if the FBI goes in. Just the FBI – no cops. He said to make that _very _clear.’

‘Narcissist,’ comments Morgan, gesturing towards the house. Then, to Michael Roland, he says. ‘The others are _definitely _still alive in there?’ Michael nods, and none of the three can detect a lie in either his eyes or his body language. One of the paramedics collects him, leaving the three agents to stare up at the house.

This is a test, Reid thinks. A test that will kill them if they fail.

‘We need to go in,’ he says decidedly.

Morgan and Emily both nod.

It’s all for one, and one for all.


	7. Four Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Seven**

Four Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_It's not enough that we do our best; sometimes we have to do what's required._

**Sir Winston Churchill.**

***             *             ***

It’s oddly quiet inside the house – as though there isn’t a killer lurking somewhere upstairs. As if there aren’t three lives that they have to save today. Of all days, it had to be today.

Before entering the house, they had had a quick discussion on the best way to proceed – they couldn’t very well go in without a plan. If the unsub wants them in the house it is for some nefarious purpose – not to have a chat over coffee and cakes.

Morgan had told one of the detectives to call Hotch, informing the Unit Chief of the situation; they all know Hotch’s response will be to get to the scene as quickly as possible. After all that has happened, he still doesn’t quite trust them not to screw this up royally. It’s a state of mind that is understandable, considering they can’t quite trust themselves, either.

The plan depends on three things; things they’re afraid that they might have lost. It relies on Morgan’s hero confidence, on Emily’s compartmentalization, on Reid’s ability to talk someone’s ear off given the right circumstances. It’s been a while since he has engaged in a lengthy, recreational conversation with anyone; there had been a similar period of unsociable behavior after his first experience with drugs. He can’t even remember the last time he had spent three hours arguing with Emily over the identity of the final cylon (he had been right, in the end) or teasing Morgan over the latest sexual conquest whose name he can’t remember.

Morgan shuts the door with a creak. His Glock is gripped tightly in both hands. While he is technically the Agent in Charge in this situation, it’s Reid who has taken point. Everything else comes down to nothing if Reid can’t do his job.

In silence, they ascend the staircase.

*             *             *

They’re less than ten minutes away when Hotch gets the call. To an outsider, his expression would seem unchanged, but Rossi notices the intensification of the Unit Chief’s determination.

‘Problem?’

‘The unsub released the first victim – Michael Roland – and had the victim pass on the request that _only _the FBI go in. They went in alone, Dave.’ He only uses Rossi’s first name when he’s anxious; today his anxious about losing three agents. If he were to admit it to himself, though, he would concede that they aren’t just agents. They aren’t just a team, working together any more. The ties run so much deeper than that. If he loses Morgan, Reid and Prentiss today, then they can’t just be replaced like machine parts. They’re family. It’s a definition that likes to reassert itself in both the extreme circumstances, and the everyday circumstances. It’s a definition that reasserts itself when he remembers that JJ likes low-fat mayonnaise on her sandwiches, or that Morgan sheds a surreptitious tear when the Cubs lose.

He’s just as terrified of losing them now as he had been on that night six months ago. Because it isn’t just about physical death. It’s about psychological breakdowns. About being shattered beyond repair.

It happens to all of them eventually; it happened to Gideon, to Elle, to half a dozen agents that Hotch has worked with over the years. Strong minds torn apart by death and destruction.

It’s the price they pay for conquering evil.

But no matter how hard they try to conquer that evil, to stop the unsub, to chase away the darkness, there will always be some of it left.

Even if it’s inside of them.

*             *             *

Morgan is standing in the hallway, trying to silence his breathing. Michael Roland had given them a brief description of the room in which the unsub has taken fort, and the layout of it means that their plan just might work.

They could have just gone in there, guns blazing, but the chance of killing a hostage is far too high. They need to play this one carefully; otherwise there might be three dead FBI agents as well as three dead hostages. Which is why Reid and Emily are going into that room alone.

Reid walks in first. His gun is drawn, but he’s trying to make it hidden. It’s not the gun he wants the unsub to pay attention to. Emily walks a little to his left; she’s his cover. If something bad does go down, it’s her job to make sure Spencer Reid doesn’t end up a corpse. That is, of course, assuming that Emily doesn’t end up a corpse first. Upon seeing the unsub’s position, she shifts her direction slightly, blocking the door from his view.

‘There were three of you,’ the unsub says, brow furrowed. There’s a pistol in his hand, pointed at the head of one of their missing men. The hostages look bruised, beaten.

‘Local PD was short one vest,’ says Reid. He gives his voice a friendly tone – trying to make it harder for this unsub to suddenly decide to kill him in cold blood. ‘We had to lend them one of ours.’

The unsub nods. He’s definitely a narcissist – so much so, that he hasn’t even considered the possibility that the FBI would do anything other than playing his game.

‘Put your weapons on the floor,’ he says harshly, pushing the pistol just a little closer into the hostage’s head. He hasn’t actually killed anyone yet – they don’t know if he’s capable, and they’re sure as hell not going to try and find out.

‘We can’t do that,’ says Reid calmly in reply. ‘We’re not here to hurt anyone, where here to make sure everybody gets out of this alive.’

He thrusts the pistol just a little bit further into the hostage’s temple, as if trying to prove a point.

‘I’ll put my weapon down,’ Reid concedes. In response, Emily only tightens her grip, but the unsub doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are on Reid. And that’s all part of the plan. Things are going okay so far, but Emily’s had such a string of bad luck lately, that she’s sure that the unsub is going to snap and kill them all. She’s barely aware of what Reid is saying to him, her own attention focused on the unsub’s body movements.

She wonders if Morgan has started making his move yet. Their preconceived notion is that if the unsub is distracted by Reid’s ramblings, then Morgan might be able to make his way into the room undetected if he sticks to the shadows. It’s not a desirable plan, but it’s the best they could come up with in two minutes and with limited intel.

The main problem is, they’re in a house. If they were in a less enclosed space, an ambush would be much easier, and any noises would be considered ambient. But they’re not outside. She doesn’t know who made the noise that distracted him – whether it was her, whether it was Morgan, whether it was some noise outside that caused him to pull his gun away from the hostage and point it at Reid, finger putting pressure on the trigger.

*             *             *

Hotch, Rossi and JJ are pulling up to the house when they hear the gunshot.


	8. Three Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Eight**

Three Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on._

**Franklin D. Roosevelt.**

***             *             ***

She feels her veins turn to ice. Her breath catches in her throat.

She sees the body.

It’s lying there, eyes wide open, a hole in its chest.

How did that happen?

Then, she realizes that her finger is curled around the trigger, and she comes crashing back to reality. There’s a dead unsub lying there, with a bullet – her bullet – lodged inside of him. She thinks she should feel something other than this emptiness.

‘Emily.’

‘I’m here,’ she says flatly, rehosltering her weapon.

‘He’s dead,’ says Morgan, withdrawing his fingers from the unsub’s neck. Reid is already untying the hostages. They all seem relatively unharmed. The only major physical wound is the gaping hole in the unsub’s chest. The emotional and psychological wounds, they suspect, are a lot longer lasting. The unsub didn’t bring them here for tea and biscuits.

Emily lets out a breath that she hadn’t even realized she was holding. It worked. In some roundabout, screwed up way, it worked. The unsub is dead, the hostages are alive, and the three of them are still breathing.

Morgan puts the all clear out over the radio. It won’t do any good if the police come bursting in, fingers squeezing triggers, simply because they heard a gunshot. As Hotch’s voice replies, Morgan realizes that the police bursting in had been the least of their worries. Hotch would have knocked the house down with a bulldozer if it meant bringing his people out alive.

‘_Is everyone alright?_’ Hotch asks. There’s some panic in his voice; the only time they ever hear this kind of emotion is when one of the team is in danger. That increasingly frequent event causes his walls to crack.

‘We’re fine,’ says Morgan, and Emily hears Hotch exhale slightly from across the room.

They’ve been in this situation a hundred times before; unsub armed, not willing to go down without a fight. Every time before today they’d come out on top. Today, they had their doubts, but they’d made it through unscathed.

They’re still standing there ruminating when Hotch, Rossi and JJ make it upstairs. Though Morgan had informed Hotch of their safety, it still seemed as though they had taken the stairs at a jog. As though if they waited any longer, he, Reid and Prentiss would break down into tears. Six months ago he wouldn’t have denied that assessment. Three months ago he wouldn’t have denied it. Hell, even a week ago he wouldn’t have denied it. Not to himself, anyway.  Today, he’s feeling a little more confident.

Things are moving forward.

‘Good work,’ Hotch says quietly, surveying the scene.

They’re strange words. Good job for killing a man. Good job for being quick enough on that trigger. Good job for being so insanely lucky that the unsub didn’t get a shot off first.

Sometimes it’s all about the luck. Good and bad. They’ve already had their quota of bad luck for the year. It had gone so far beyond tripping on the sidewalk, or stepping on a rusty nail. The scales are going have to pile on the good stuff to balance this year out.

But things don’t always work that way.

*             *             *

They hadn’t even been in Miami a single day. It had felt like so much longer. They will be there for at least another twelve hours; the jet is refueling, and they may as well get themselves a good night’s sleep anyway.

Or at least try.

Three profilers in particular are having a little bit of trouble on that front. It doesn’t help that almost every time they close their eyes, they see their nightmares playing out before them.

In any case, they’ve got far more important things to be doing than sleeping.

It isn’t chance that has them meeting in the hallway. They’ve all been trying to work up the courage to simply knock on the door. Morgan gives a low laugh when he sees the other two, doing exactly as he is doing. Though they’re all dealing – or not dealing – with their problems in their own way, they’ve probably got a lot more in common than they realize.

But character traits like stubbornness, that work so well when there’s paperwork that needs to be completed, isn’t so great when they’re rebelling against that healing process.

‘Hey,’ says Reid, trying to hide the strain in his voice. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for this. He doesn’t know if any of them are ready. There’s the rub.

Neither Morgan nor Emily speak in reply; Morgan gives a short laugh, and Emily gives something that is halfway between a grimace and a smile.

‘Um…’ Reid continues, and for a single moment, he’s stuck. Garcia had said “talk to them,” but what is he supposed to say? Is he supposed to ask them how the torture wounds are healing? Ask if they can still hear the screams when they go to bed at night?

He’s never been all that good at this. He has a big enough heart to try, and big enough feet to put in his mouth every time. So he goes with what he’s good at.

‘There’s a Star Trek marathon on the Sci-Fi channel tonight, if you wanted to watch.’

Emily laughs.

It’s a start.


	9. Two Minutes to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Nine**

Two Minutes to Dawn

*             *             *

_The shifts of Fortune test the reliability of friends._

**Cicero**

*             *             *

Though watching Star Trek had been Reid’s idea, he has already fallen asleep, barely five episodes in. It’s not late – barely past nine. Unconsciously, both Morgan and Emily wonder how long it’s going to take for the youngest profiler to jerk awake suddenly due to a nightmare. It takes a little under two hours. As Reid would have told them, on average, it takes around ninety minutes to fall into R.E.M. sleep, the stage during which the most vivid dreaming occurs. They’ve all played this game for a while now – they know the science behind the nightmares.

‘You want to talk about it?’ asks Morgan softly. Both he and Emily look over from their respective positions on the bed. Morgan’s tucked away slightly to the side, knowing that allowing Emily to stretch out is probably better for the still healing wounds on her back. Reid himself is curled at their feet, or at least, he had been until he started thrashing.

Emily hits the mute button on the remote control. She’s seen this episode before anyway. The good guys win.

Reid sees the concerned look on their faces, and he believes now more than ever that he is among friends. These are the people who helped him through one of the toughest experiences of his life. They did it together. It seems fitting that they should recover together. If only they would admit it to themselves.

‘I’m lost,’ he says. ‘I’m in a dark passageway, and no matter how many turns I take, I can never find the way out. I’m feeling…helpless.’ And that’s it in a nutshell. That’s what they all feel.

Helpless to save themselves. Helpless to save each other. If they can’t even do that, then what use are they to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How can they save the life of a stranger when they can’t even get past their own insecurities?

That’s the hump they just can’t seem to get over.

‘I see death,’ says Morgan. ‘I can’t…everybody just keeps dying, and I can’t stop it.’ His voice is almost uncharacteristically soft, as if he isn’t willing to admit to this kind of weakness. As if he doesn’t want anyone else to know what he’s going through. It’s an attitude that’s been omnipresent his entire life. The only time he’ll ever admit to a weakness is when it’s beneficial to another’s plight. Tonight it’s beneficial. Tonight it’s _very_ beneficial. Knowing that they’re not alone makes things feel just that little bit easier.

‘Cities of gold,’ says Emily eventually. Her eyes are fixed on a point in the far corner of the room, as if she is staring into the distance. ‘Machine elves.’

Reid’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s read the research on near-death experiences. On the effects of dimethyltryptamine.

‘It makes me feel...’ she pauses, unable to think of the right word. ‘Confused,’ she settles on. ‘Because on the one hand, it makes me think that there’s some whole other world out there, but then I can’t even begin to cope with this one.’

That’s only the tip of the iceberg. Their insecurities run far deep than can be exposed in a two minute conversation. It’s going to take much longer than that for them to work through this. To let any of them even begin to feel as though they have some control over their lives. Sometimes that feels like a pipe dream.

Slow steps. That’s all it takes.

*             *             *

When Rossi wakes, the sun has barely risen. It had been a general consensus the previous night, that if they get an early start, then they should be able to make it back to Quantico before midday. Almost enough time to start another case entirely, he thinks ruefully.

So he’s up, knocking on doors, making sure that everyone is getting themselves out of bed and ready to go.

JJ’s is the first door he knocks on. ‘I’m up,’ is the immediate reply. ‘Ten minutes, and I’m ready.’

‘No rush,’ replies Rossi. ‘Ten bucks says that Reid is still asleep.’ And when he knocks on Reid’s door, he’s not surprised when there’s no answer.

‘Everything alright?’ asks Hotch, as he exits his own room. He’s already dressed in his impeccable suit, arm still a little stiff.

‘Kid must be sleeping pretty heavily,’ comments Rossi, frowning only slightly. While it’s true that Reid can sleep in the strangest of places, he usually wakes at even the lightest turbulence.

‘Check on him,’ says Hotch, passing the older agent a room key from his pocket. After an embarrassing incident involving JJ and a bathrobe almost a year earlier, Hotch made a point of keeping the spare keys to his agents’ rooms. There was also that matter of security.

‘I’m coming in, Reid,’ Rossi says loudly, not wanting to get shot as an intruder. It’s not as though Reid would ever do something like that, but still. He’s not taking any chances.

At first he’s startled, then, he’s amused. ‘Aaron,’ he says, a little softer now. ‘Come look at this.’

If not for the events that lead to this moment, it would almost be cute. With the events, it’s a big step forward. Reid, Emily and Morgan, all fast asleep on the queen-sized bed. Emily’s head rests lightly on Morgan’s shoulder, and Reid’s sleeping form is wedged comfortably between the two of them.

In spite of himself, Hotch smiles.

Yeah. This is a big step forward.


	10. One Minute to Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Ten**

One Minute to Dawn

*             *             *

_We don't receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us._

**Marcel Proust**

***             *             ***

Emily wakes, and for a split second, she’s confused. She remembers this. She’s been like this before, only it’s not the same. No. Last time, they had been freezing cold, injured, and at the mercy of a sadistic sociopath. Once she reminds herself of that, she takes note of the familiar - and yet, at the same time, unfamiliar – surroundings. She recognizes Morgan’s scent, but thinks that apart from that one time, she’s never been pressed up so close to him. And she’s _absolutely_ sure that she’s never had Reid’s head resting on her chest before, and she wonders briefly just how he managed to get into that position.

It’s not particularly early, but neither is it late. Hotch had made a point of expressing his desire to leave as soon as possible, so she goes through the motions of waking Morgan and Reid. Reid’s up fairly quickly, his eyes wide with confusion as he assesses his surroundings. Morgan takes a little longer, with a lot more groaning.

There’s a slightly pained silence as they all process the events of the previous night; the tears, the confessions. The things that had taken so long to come to fruition, and yet they had only been the first of many steps that would need to be taken before things even had the chance of going back to normal.

She excuses herself, and goes back to her own room. She’s not so sure she wants to deal with the healing process just yet, and in any case, she’s not about to get changed in front of them. It’s not just about politeness; it’s about the scarring on her back that she isn’t quite ready to show them yet. Showing them is like admitting weakness, and it’s bad enough that they know about the dreams. She doesn’t want them to see the wounds that are a constant reminder of their failures, of their nightmare. The physical scars from the skin graft, just like the mental, will take some time to fade.

She slips off her pajama shirt, wincing slightly as the scars twinge. It had taken all of her strength to keep it together whilst talking to Morgan and Reid, and she’s fairly sure that the same could be said for the both of them. She figures that right now, they’ll both be having their own breakdowns in one way or another. Just like she’s about to have hers.

*             *             *

Morgan sits in his boxers, staring at the door.

He should be getting dressed – the rest of the team will be waiting for him. But he can’t go out there. He can’t let them see him like this. He had arguably suffered the least after their experience. He’s the one they should be looking to for strength.

That’s not going to help if he can’t keep up the façade.

He dresses quickly, tossing his dirty clothes into his go bag. He’ll deal with them once he gets back to Virginia. Just like everything else.

It’s one thing to admit to weaknesses in private, quite another to reveal them to the rest of the world. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago. He’d learned that lesson as a child, at the community center with Carl Buford. It’s a lesson he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

He’s felt that weakness once before. He doesn’t want to feel it again, even though deep down, he knows he needs to let it all out.

Apparently, he’s not the only one that sees that.

He runs into Rossi on his way out to the lobby, go bag slung over his shoulder. There’s the slightest of limps, where he’d taken a scalpel in the thigh six months earlier.

‘How’s it going?’ Rossi asks, and it’s with a tone of voice that he uses when he’s interrogating a suspect that they’re already three steps ahead of. A certain smugness. An “I know something you don’t” kind of attitude. Of course, it’s Rossi – most of the time he has an “I know something you don’t” attitude, even if it’s not as overbearing as it used to be, and it’s not so much about arrogance as it is about experience. He’s probably had moments of self doubt too, Morgan thinks, even if he doesn’t show it.

‘What do you want, Rossi?’ he asks cautiously, eying off the older profiler with suspicion.

‘Am I not allowed to enquire about the wellbeing of a colleague?’

‘Cut the crap, Rossi. You want to say something, you say it. Stop pussy-footing around.’ His voice is angry, and he’s almost surprised at himself for a second. He’d thought he’d gotten over this kind of aggression a long time ago.

‘It’s easy to talk about it with people who have been through the same thing as you. They understand the situation. But outsiders…speaking to people who have no way of knowing – that’s the hardest thing to do. At the same time, you know that you haven’t fully healed until you do let it all out.’

If there’s some kind of answer Rossi’s looking for, he doesn’t wait for it. He gives Morgan a short nod, and continues on his way to the hotel lobby.

*             *             *

He takes great pains to sit alone on the jet back. It’s not that he wants to avoid the company of his colleagues – he just needs time to process the events of the previous night, the shared revelations. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Morgan walking straight past Rossi to sit next to JJ, and Prentiss looking somewhat uncomfortable at the prospect of sitting next to Hotch.

The idea that they’re all still on edge around the rest of the team troubles him somewhat. He knows that the first time he’d been kidnapped, he’d been nigh unapproachable for a long time. He hadn’t wanted to see that again, and yet it’s happening. The same story playing out, with minor variations.

He thinks of the scars in the crook of his elbow. The points where the needle had pressed into his flesh, releasing the drugs into his system. He remembers the pain of withdrawal, and thinks that maybe it’s the same and yet it’s different at the same time.

He still feels the cravings – after a hard case, when he’s exhausted, his shoulder will twinge, and he’ll feel the urge to drop everything and throw his life away. He feels kind of hopeless at these times, and yet the primitive, id part of his mind somehow thinks that the Dilaudid will be a safety net. That it will make everything feel okay again.

He imagines what Morgan and Prentiss are going through is much the same, except without that faux safety net.

What he needs – what they all need – is a real safety net. One that isn’t going to let them reach rock bottom.

 


	11. Dawn

Dawn

**Chapter Eleven**

Dawn

*             *             *

_Change is the process by which the future invades our lives._

**Alvin Toffler**

***             *             ***

Emily looks out the window, and the edge of the horizon is a pale orange. The rest of the sky is a purplish-grey, the capital’s buildings almost blending into the pre-dawn haze. It’s been a long time – so long – since she’s been able to simply sit down and watch the day go by. It’s a seamless transition to the fiery shade of sunrise, and finally, the soft blue that indicates the morning has broken. By then, the coffee in her hands has become cold and bitter. It’s not great task to make another cup, but the craving for caffeine has passed. She doesn’t want to intrude on the calmness that’s invaded her life this morning – the kind of calmness she hasn’t felt for a long while now.

In lieu of anything else, she tips the coffee down the sink, washing and drying the empty mug. Normally she’d still be sleeping, or getting ready for work, or on the really heavy days, negotiating the traffic of everyone else that’s decided to get on the road before the sun has risen. Mostly it’s people like her, getting to work early, but she figures there are a lot of people coming home from work as well. A lot of people who’d pulled an all nighter, working on the latest political crisis or any other number of mundane activities that are, in all honesty, far from the most important things on her mind.

She’s thinking about the past, the present, the future. About the job, about the side effects of the job, about the consequences. About the almost invisible scar on her forehead from a two-by-four, about the long faded bruises from a cult leader’s beating, about the wounds that will never really heal – both physical and otherwise. About Morgan. About Reid. About how tomorrow she’s have to wake up, and live through the same things that she’s spent the last few months dealing with. The fear, the doubt, the regret.

But then, things are moving forward. She’s in a place today that she hadn’t been a week ago. A place of understanding. Some things are a little clearer, while others remain fuzzy, as if she’s had one too many glasses of wine. She needs it all to be clear. She needs to see the world for what it is, without that fear, that doubt, that regret.

It’s a brand new day.

Even though it’s summer, she dresses in a long-sleeved shirt, because it’s one thing admitting weakness to those closest to her, but it’s quite another admitting it to the rest of the world.

It takes her a while to make the appropriate phone calls; if it’s because she’s afraid, she’s not sure. It’s not a personality trait she’s wont to expressing.

Realistically speaking, she could have asked them to come to her place – she doubts they would have declined, knowing that it’s something that needs to be done. Actually getting up, and driving, though, is a proactive decision.

It’s something she needs to do.

*             *             *

Morgan starts to make a half-hearted attempt at cleaning, but it doesn’t take long for him to realize that there’s really nothing _to_ clean. The house is in the same state that he’d left it in, except perhaps, with an extra layer of dog fur on the sofa. He gives it a quick run-over with a lint-roller. It’s not the most thorough job, but then, they’re coming around to talk, not to inspect his furniture. The rest of the cleaning job amounts getting rid of the empty beer bottles. It’s adequate. He’s not the cleanest of individuals, and the house reflects that. It has a lived-in feel, which is almost ironic, seeing as how he probably spends more time on the job.

‘What do you think, buddy?’ he asks of Clooney, who’s stretched out on his mat. The lab gives him a woeful look that doesn’t even begin to answer the question. ‘We can’t play now,’ he tells the dog. ‘We’re about to have company. But I bet Reid’ll love it if you lick his face again.’ He cracks a smile at the memory of it, or rather, at the memory of Reid scrubbing ferociously at the saliva with a soapy face washer.

It’s half an hour later when there’s a slightly hesitant knock on the door. It’s Emily, who almost seems to take a deep breath before stepping over the threshold.

‘Reid’ll be a little bit late,’ she says, off hand, as though it doesn’t really matter, but Morgan knows that it does. She lets Clooney sniff her hand with enthusiasm, and Morgan sees a smile creeping onto her lips. It’s nice to see her smile; they’ve all been encroaching on Hotch’s domain of the robotic expression for a long while. It’s not hard to see why the Unit Chief does it. Happy times have been few and far between.

‘Do you want a drink?’ he asks her, as she sets her bag by the door, and slips off her shoes. It doesn’t matter how many times he tells her she doesn’t need to – she still always takes her shoes off at the door. Something left over from a childhood of foreign embassies, he thinks. ‘Water? Soda?’ He gestures for her to follow him into the kitchen, which she does with some hesitation.

‘Soda’s fine, I guess.’ Her eyes don’t quite meet his. He knows that without Reid here as well, she feels that little bit more uncomfortable.

He hands her a can of Pepsi from the fridge, and for a moment, they stand there in silence. It’s a silence that’s punctuated only by a knocking on the door. She relaxes considerably at the sound; Reid’s not as late as he said he was going to be, apparently.

He shuffles in, hands in pockets, messenger bag slung casually over his shoulder. He looks the same as he always does, a darkness hiding behind that innocent façade.

‘Hi,’ he says awkwardly, hands not leaving his pockets. Morgan offers him a can of Pepsi – (the last can. He needs to go shopping) – but unsurprisingly, the younger man declines.

‘I was…’ he says, and then frowns. He tries again. ‘I had a meeting. Beltway Clean Cops.’ There’s a short silence, and Reid’s hands shift. His sleeves are rolled down, Morgan notices. Just like Emily, he’s hiding the scars.

‘Oh,’ Morgan says eventually. ‘How did it go?’

‘It…It went well,’ he says decidedly. ‘Sometimes it feels good to talk about it. With other people.’

‘We’ve all had our psych sessions, kid,’ Morgan argues, not particularly liking the direction Reid seems to be going with this.

‘Individual sessions,’ Reid reminds him. ‘Group therapy is a remarkably different process, in which the setting is explicitly utilized as a mechanism of change by developing, exploring and examining interpersonal relationships within the group.’

‘We’ve got to start somewhere,’ Emily says quietly, and Morgan realizes that it’s the first thing she’s actually said since Reid had gotten here. There’s a determined look on her face – one that’s been missing for just as long as the smile, and yet its presence feels so much stronger.

‘Fine,’ he says eventually, and the response is a subdued one. It’s not going to be an easy task, but they’ve taken the first steps. The dawn of a new day.


End file.
